


Milkshake

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Heatwave, Light Masochism, M/M, Milkshake, Post-The Amazing Spider-man 2, Songfic, Spideypool - Freeform, Tacos, past Peter Parker/Gwen Stacy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:59:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York City is in the midst of a record heatwave. So Wade’s in no mood to unalive whomever broke into his apartment, ran his A/C, and is listening to his satellite radio. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to (no matter <i>what</i> Yellow says). Written for this prompt (http://itsscrow.tumblr.com/post/149983747844/imagine-your-otp). See end notes for full prompt.</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU, but vaguely. No redeeming value. Not exactly a songfic, but . . . I watched the video for this song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGL2rytTraA) over and over. Like, for science, yo.<br/>::shrugs::<br/>::shifty eyes::</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milkshake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hostile17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hostile17/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

 

Wade Winston Wilson shlepped his groceries up from D’Ags— _try_ getting a cab in NYC with his scowling, sweating, scarred mug—to his apartment in East Harlem because even on a day like _this_ , he moved faster than the Uptown buses did.

 

So, after a sixty or so block walk, dripping with sweat despite only wearing a now-sodden, white wife-beater (Sun’s out? Guns out!), cargo shorts, a Mets baseball cap, and flipflops, he let himself into his building—old, crumbling, but gorgeous outside and in. Plumbing and wiring older than God’s babysitter, but, hey, it was a nice place, with a nice landlord, in a nice, culturally rich area—ignored his mailbox for the fourth time in a row, since all his bills were on scheduled e-payments, so the few letters he received were usually of the spam variety, and tackled the three flights of stairs to his floor with a resigned grunt.

 

It wasn’t until he was standing outside his door, too damn fried and drained to do more than stare at the knob as if doing so would unlock it faster than maybe digging for his fucking _keys_ , that he realized he had been hearing music since the second floor.

 

And it was coming from _his_ apartment.

 

[Curiouser and curiouser,] White noted listlessly and without interest. Yellow didn’t even rise to the bait, if it could be called that. For the past week, the Boxes had mostly held their peace. Something about the heat and the lack of work—rather, the new leaf Deadpool had been slowly, but steadily turning over, working with Spider-Man off and on for the past nearly two years—made the normally chummy, verbose Boxes almost . . . close-mouthed.

 

Wade would’ve worried about what it meant, once upon a time, but not now. Now, he was simply enjoying the increasingly frequent silence inside his skull.

 

(It’d literally been _years_ since it wasn't a fucking free-for-all in there. Almost two decades, in fact.)

 

Of course, having acknowledged the silence to himself, the Boxes—contrary as fuck—sought to undo it.

 

{I want an icee,} Yellow whined petulantly. {Coconut!}

 

[Ick. No. Lemon is better.]

 

 _Fuck_ both _you guys, since I’m not goin’ back out there unless the building catches fire. And I don’t mean no namby-pamby blaze, but_ Towering Inferno _-style._

 

{But—}

 

[You’re a dick.]

 

 _And_ you’re _a disembodied manifestation of my fractured and divergent psyche . . . come at me, bro._

 

White grumbled, then fell silent, retreating to the back of Wade’s mind in a sweaty sulk. Yellow, meanwhile, had fastened onto the problem of their possibly _occupado_ apartment with some interest.

 

{Maybe we’ll get to unalive someone, today! It’s been _far_ too long. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to keep our hand in!}

 

 _We’re_ not _gonna unalive anyone, today, Yellow. And we’re also not going back out into the Ninth Concentric Circle of Hell to get a fucking icee, so don’t ask again._

 

{I hate you!}

 

_Then you’re in good company. I refer you to White._

 

{Killjoy.}

 

 _I’m rubber, you’re glue, pal_ , Wade replied, putting down his groceries and trying the doorknob. The door swung open easily, noiselessly, and he peered in, sighing in unwilling relief as a blast of conditioned air hit his wet face.

 

Thing was: he hadn’t left the A/C _on_. Call that a stale remnant of growing up poor and despised . . . leaving on lights, or anything electric when they weren’t in direct use had been worth a beating. Hell, pretty much _anything_ that’d reminded Wade’s father of Wade’s _existence_ had been worth a beating.

 

After a moment to enjoy the cooler air and successfully repress all the things he’d been repressing for most of his life, Wade went into Deadpool scan-mode. Nothing in the hallway.

 

Wandering into his apartment, groceries forgotten for the moment—thank goodness he didn’t get any fro-yo or eggs, this trip—Wade peered into each room he passed curiously, but not especially alarmed. His own, ahem, spidey-sense wasn’t tingling one iota.

 

The living room was clear, so to speak. It was still a mess of game consoles and games, Spider-Man and Deadpool memorabilia, and electronic gadgets that’d caught Wade’s eye until he actually owned them and lost interest. But though it _was_ clear, this room, with its comprehensive home theater system and ridiculously expensive sound bar, was where the music was coming from. Or it _would’ve_ _been_ , if the current song— _Diamonds and Guns_ , by the Transplants—hadn’t ended.

 

It was an XM station, and not one of Wade’s usual.

 

 _Huh_ , he thought as the DJ blathered something about the record-breaking heat in a fast, nonsensical patter while cuing up the next song.

 

The room Wade had dedicated as an office for Petey—should the other man realize he wanted to live with Wade, after all, never mind two years of firm _no_ s—was also clear, just a desk, chair, bookshelves, and that microscope Wade had found in that dumpster last month.

 

The doorless storage room, where Wade kept his extra Deadpool suits, was clear.

 

That left the kitchen, Wade’s bedroom, the room he’d set aside for Petey’s, and the guest room. The dedicated armory—formerly another storage room—was locked with a code-lock. Still locked, and Wade could see the green-blinking light from where he stood.

 

Whoever was in here hadn’t tried to get his weapons.

 

 _Alrighty, then._ Wade made his way further down the hall, past the armory and guest bedroom—empty of everything, including furniture—and was approaching the kitchen and other two bedrooms when the next song started up.

 

For a moment, Wade was so stunned, he just stopped dead in his tracks . . . a sitting duck for who or whatever might be ballsy enough to break into his place and listen to his damn satellite radio. For a few seconds he was just . . . listening.

 

He hadn’t heard this song in, like . . . at least a decade.

 

_“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,/ And they’re like: ‘It’s better than yours,’/ Damn right, it’s better than yours,/ I can teach you, but I have to charge—/”_

 

Wade blinked, coming out of his head-bobbing, hip-shaking daze.

 

 _Kelis_ wasn’t the only one singing, it seemed.

 

No, _another voice_ —a low, smooth tenor, sultry and in-key—wasn’t just singing along, but singing along with abandon. Slightly distracted-sounding, but keeping up with the lyrics and key changes.

 

This voice was _more_ than a _little_ familiar.

 

Smiling, Wade made his silent way to the kitchen, noticing the movement of shadows interrupting the bright, early afternoon sunlight that came in through the kitchen window.

 

At the arched entryway to the kitchen, Wade paused, smiling, and peered around the corner. . . .

 

_“I know you want it: the thing that makes me/ What the guys go crazy for. They lose their minds,/ The way I wind, I think it’s time/ La la-la la la . . . warm it up./ Lala-lalala, the boys are waiting—/”_

 

It took about eight and a half years for Wade to pick his jaw up off the fucking floor. For in his kitchen, moving sexily, sinuously, sensually— _seriously_ , why did all the really _good_ words that meant _sexy_ start with an S?—to the music . . . move-for-fucking- _move_ copying Kelis’s dance-routine from the music video, if Wade remembered correctly (and for the number of times he’d beat off to that video, plushie unicorn in one hand, dick in the other, he probably remembered _very_ correctly) was Peter Benjamin Parker . . . aka Spider-Man.

 

Oh, and the truly _mind-melting_ part of it? Not only was Peter Parker acting out a fantasy Wade hadn’t even known he’d _had,_ and in _Wade’s own kitchen_ , but he was doing so in nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans that were officially _booty-shorts_ —

 

—and nothing else.

 

Like, literally _nothing else_. Not even socks.

 

So, yeah. Jaw? Still on the floor, and thank goodness Wade had recently Swiffer’d the whole apartment because he was having trouble getting it up. For once.

 

And _Peter_ . . . didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t alone. He just kept on singing and shaking that fine ass to the beat, hands all over his defined chest and toned six-pack. And each movement seemed to let the booty-shorts ride a little lower, till the sparse, dark, fine-haired Trail of Heaven was more than a suggestion, but a goddamned treasure-map.

 

And the top curve of his ass was peeking out of the shorts like a goddamned _siren_.

 

_“I can see you're on it. You want me to teach/ The techniques that freaks these boys,/ It can't be bought. Just know, thieves get caught,/ Watch if you’re smart. La la-la la la,/ Warm it up. La la-la la la./ The boys are waiting—”_

 

 _Aaaaaand_ just as Wade had picked up his unruly jaw from the relatively clean floor, Peter shook his ass in the most delightfully _obscene_ and sexually explicit way Wade had ever seen outside a rap video, before dropping it down almost to the floor for a few more shakes, then easing back up with hands all. Over. His. _Body_. _And_ his _ass_ pushing out and aching to be touched. Or, even better:

 

Ground up on.

 

Jaw dragging behind him, Wade practically staggered forward, dehydration, exhaustion, and probable heat-stroke (and his groceries) totally forgotten.

 

He was soundless as he moved into the kitchen proper—not that it was necessary with the volume of the music, though one could never be certain with Peter’s spidey-hearing—eyes on the prize as it shook and wiggled and shimmied like every dirty thought and wet dream Wade had ever had come to miraculous life.

 

And Peter was, for once, so relaxed and into the music, and his shockingly slutty moves, that even his _spidey-sense_ didn’t alert him to Wade’s presence. Though, admittedly, Peter’s spidey-sense was pretty selective about whom it raised the alarm for, and Wade hadn’t been on _that_ list for almost two years, now.

 

[What _are_ you doing, cock-for-brains?]

 

{He _will_ punch us in the nuts . . . you realize this, yes?}

 

 _He probably will. Still, though . . ._ totally _worth it_ , was Deadpool’s reply to the suddenly present and accounted for Boxes. Then he was shunting them so far to the back of his mind, he couldn’t hear even the faintest echo of their opinions anymore. And then. . .

 

. . . and _then_ , his hands landed on Peter’s waist. On his furnace-hot—even with the A/C blasting full-bore—ridiculous-smooth skin. Peter froze instantly, gasping as Wade’s rough, callused hands slid around a bit, till they rested on Peter’s abs and that fine trail of hair that lead to one of the only places Wade ever really wanted to be anymore.

 

“Whah—” Peter started to say, breathless and high, as Wade shushed him, leaning his chin down on Peter’s lightly-padded shoulder. A moment later, he was singing along with Kelis, his voice just as breathless, not to mention raw and hoarse with want:

 

_“Once you get involved, everyone will look this way—so,/ You must maintain your charm. Same time maintain your halo,/ Just get the perfect blend, plus what you have within—/”_

 

He pressed his pelvis forward against Peter’s ass and swung both their hips while grinding against the other man. Peter turned his face slightly, so that his cheek was brushing Wade’s lips. He was breathing just as fast as Wade, but didn’t hesitate to really give as good as he got . . . grinding that sweet ass back against Wade’s sudden, but unsurprising and impossible to miss hard-on.

 

Wade grunted, hands sliding lower on Peter’s hips—all but framing his crotch. “Fuck, _Pete_. . . .”

 

Peter smiled a little, the motion pushing his warm, slightly damp cheek against Wade’s lips. Then he was singing, again:

 

_“Then next his eyes are squint, then he's picked up your scent,/ Lala-lalala. Warm it up./ Lala-lalala, the boys are waiting—/”_

 

And what came after that wasn’t even remotely dancing—not even a _pretense_ of it. It was just—ha! _Just_ —Peter grinding against Wade, shaking and shimmying that perfect ass to the beat, and letting Wade guide his hips and return the grinding. Peter’s right hand came up to cup the back of Wade’s sweaty neck gently, his left hand settling on Wade’s hand, where it lay on his abdomen.

 

And they just . . . _moved together_. Like they had been doing nothing but _this_ for their whole lives.

 

Peter’s _body_ . . . was a flame Wade could touch and hold without being burned, only . . . Peter _did_ _burn_ him. Had from the first time Wade had seen him swinging around Manhattan being the most graceful, fluid creature in existence.

 

_“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,/ And they’re like: ‘It’s better than yours,’/ Damn right, it’s better than yours,/ I can teach you, but I have to charge—/”_

 

Peter sang the refrain soft and breathlessly, his movements smaller, but _deeper_ , somehow, still letting Wade guide his hips and run a wondering, possessive hand up and down his abdomen.

 

Then, far too soon, the song was over, and Wade and Peter were swaying, groping, and grinding to the DJ’s weedy, nasally voice. It was only when the next song came on— _Y’All Gon’ Make Me_ , by DMX—that Wade halted the slow snake of Peter’s hips, and simply wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist, sighing against that flushed cheek.

 

“Call me a purist,” Wade said casually, noting that Peter shivered in his arms. “But I prefer _X Gon’ Give it To Ya._ ”

 

Peter chuckled then sighed. “So do I, actually,” he replied in his low, pleasant voice.

 

“So.” Wade shifted his head to inhale the scent of Peter’s hair. It always smelled like peppermint. “Not that this isn’t the best way to be welcomed home after a sixty-block walk, but . . . what’re you doin’ here, Baby Boy? Everything okay?”

 

“Mmhmm. Everything’s everything, Wade . . . except for the fucking heat—oh, my God,” Peter grumbled, his hand dropping from the back of Wade’s sweaty neck, to cover his right hand. “Wait—didn’t you get my messages? And my email? And my texts?”

 

“Um.” Wade said, which was as good as a _no_. He could almost hear Peter rolling those lovely dark eyes.

 

“I pretty much blew up your spot asking if I could crash here for a few days. The electric in my building went blooey and has to be _completely_ redone. Meanwhile, the building itself is as hot as Hades and I can’t even turn on my fans! Argh!” Peter practically growled and Wade smiled, holding him tighter. “Anyway. Yeah. I, uh, took the liberty of, uh . . . letting myself in. I stashed my crap in the bedroom next to yours and I also brought some groceries so I could cook you dinner to say . . . you know . . . _thanks_.”

 

And Wade, only half-listening, sort of sidelined by the feel of Peter’s ass against his undeterred erection, hummed and held Peter even tighter. The other man laughed a little. Wade just _knew_ he was blushing. But Peter didn’t pull away. Not even a little. That _had_ to mean something.

 

Wade wasn’t sure what, but . . . _something_.

 

“Wade, buddy, are you even _listening_ to me?”

 

“Every word, Baby Boy. You’re _always_ welcome here. Hell, I’d pay cash-money to see you here more often! Last time you were here was New Year’s, and. . . .” Wade trailed off, frowning and doing some more repressing. He shifted his crotch away from Peter’s ass and straightened up, letting go of Peter’s warm—welcoming? Nah, probably just wishful thinking on Wade’s part—body. Peter shivered as Wade’s hands slid off his waist. “Anyway! Yeah, you’re always welcome here. Especially when you bring food. Uh, speaking of—”

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter said softly, turning to face Wade, his deep, abyss-dark eyes wide and intent. “About that night—”

 

“I’mma go get the groceries I left melting and evaporating in the hall. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home, huh?” And with a crooked half-smile, Wade stumbled quickly out of the kitchen and away from the look in Peter’s dove-like eyes.

 

#

 

That night, Wade couldn’t sleep.

 

Peter was next door—literally just a wall away—and that knowledge was _killing_ Wade.

 

They’d both decided, after an afternoon spent Netflixing and chilling—Peter on and off his laptop doing homework—and a relaxed Tex-Mex dinner, to hit the hay early—shortly after nine p.m.—avoiding Wade’s video games like the plague with tacit, but unspoken agreement.

 

Just as well. Wade’s concentration would’ve been crap, with New Year’s near the front of his mind.

 

Now, freshly-showered and laying in his super-soft, super-expensive bed, starkers and _still_ hot even with the sheets kicked off him and the A/C still blasting, Wade considered sneaking out to the kitchen for a late night snack. Ten or twelve soft shell tacos ought to do it.

 

 _Anything_ that’d keep his mind off Peter, really, would be just aces in Wade’s unexacting book.

 

Finally, at 10:37, he couldn’t take it anymore.

 

He was up and stalking out of his bedroom silently, heading for the kitchen. The door to Peter’s room was closed, the lights out. Wade wondered briefly if Peter was awake, too. . . .

 

Then he stepped into the kitchen, forcing his mind onto one of its favorite topics: Tacos.

 

By the time he was done shakin’ and bakin’—he _may_ have gone overboard and made a _few_ more tacos than planned . . . even _he_ was daunted by the sheer amount of chewing it’d take to put away so much deliciousness—he looked at the mess that was his kitchen—unlike Peter, who cleaned as he cooked, Wade left dishes to crust over and molder in the sink—and sighed. The center island was _covered_ in tacos, tacos, and _more_ tacos.

 

“Fuck. And I’ve lost my appetite, to boot,” he mumbled wonderingly, hands on his bare hips.

 

“Well, we could always eat ‘em for breakfast,” Peter said from the doorway, startling Wade, who turned, wide-eyed and gaping. More so, when he realized Peter was . . . in the parlance of the day: buck-fucking- _naked_.

 

And more than a little hard.

 

“Peter, you . . . what. . . .” Wade _tried_ not to stare at Peter’s leanly-muscled body, the pale-peach skin, the chestnut hair—carpet and curtains did, indeed, match—and that pretty, dusky-pink cock emerging from surprisingly thick pubic hair.

 

Really . . . Wade _tried_. But he didn’t succeed. He simply stood there, staring and drinking Peter in like a thirsting man with a goblet of cold, clear water. Stood there until Peter wasn’t the only one who was half-hard.

 

“Wade,” Peter finally said, brow furrowing nervously, hopefully. “Can we . . . talk?”

 

Snorting, Wade smirked, though it felt forced. “You sure that’s _all_ you wanna do, Petey?”

 

Peter smiled a little, haplessly. “Actually, I’m sure it’s _not_ all I wanna do. Kinda don’t wanna talk at _all_ , in fact. It seems like every time I try . . . I mess things up between us.”

 

“Really? And what things would those be?” Wade asked with a soft sigh. As far as he knew, the only thing between them that’d ever been worth angsting over had been New Year’s, but . . . _Wade_ was the one who’d tried to talk about it with _Peter_ . . . and had messed things up. For weeks, Peter wouldn’t even talk to him, after what happened. And any attempt by Wade to clear the air had been met with something that’d been damn-near fright and then total silence.

 

“You _know_ what things, Wade,” Peter breathed, taking a step closer. Wade took a step back. Peter licked his lips nervously and shook his head. “What happened between us on New Year’s . . . what I did was . . . inexcusable.”

 

Wade winced. _Of course_ , Peter would feel that way. Would regret what’d happened between them, even though that’d been, beyond all doubt, the best night of Wade’s pathetic life.

 

But that wasn’t Peter’s problem, was it?

 

“If you say so, Petey-pie,” Wade agreed in his most calm, casual voice. “I know you were in a vulnerable place and lonely, and you’d have probably . . . I mean . . . I guess, what I’m tryin’ to say is . . . I shouldn’ta took advantage.”

 

Peter was frowning. “No, that’s— _Wade_ , _no_. If anyone was taking advantage, it was _me_.” He stepped closer by a few steps and this time, Wade didn’t back away.

 

“Yeah? How d’ya figure, Pete?” Wade turned to the fridge and opened it. Plenty of beer—weird microbrews that Peter liked and the Rolling Rock and PBR that Wade favored. Wade grabbed the nearest beer to hand— _Joe Mama’s Milk_ —and twisted the top off easily. He hadn’t used a bottle opener since before Weapon X.

 

“I figure because, well . . . _I_ kissed _you_ , Wade Wilson.” Peter watched Wade down half the beer—it was a stout, chocolatey and strangely good, but then, for the most part, Peter had excellent taste. In beer, at least—and moved a few steps closer. “I . . . I thought about nothing else till 11:59p.m. that night. And when midnight rolled around, I pretty much just launched myself at—”

 

“The nearest warm body . . . yeah, Pete, I get it. No need to explain and drag this whole mess out,” Wade underhand-tossed the bottle at the sink, where it promptly broke.

 

 _The fuck’s my life, lately?_ he wondered ruefully.

 

“No, _not_ the nearest warm body, Wade.” Peter had halved the distance between them, and his hands were held up almost in supplication. “I never . . . what I did. . . .”

 

“You mean blowing me after kissing my lips clean off my face?” Wade raised his eyebrows as Peter blushed deeply enough that it was visible even with only the light above the stove to leaven the darkness.

 

“Yes, that,” Peter said shyly, smiling just a little. Shocked by that tiny smile, Wade found himself moving closer to Peter. Just by two steps, but still. Peter’s crazy-pretty eyelashes fluttered minutely, a dark fan that shuttered his shining eyes for a moment. “I’ve only ever been with one person . . . in that way. A sexual way. My girlfriend, Gwen.”

 

Wade nodded solemnly. “The one who . . . passed away.”

 

“The one I _couldn’t save_ ,” Peter corrected flatly, that small smile fading. The eyes that met Wade’s were now grim. “Over the past few years, I just assumed the part of me that could want someone like that ever again was dead. That . . . I dunno. That she was _it_ , for me. That I’d never again be able to feel. . . .” he shook his head as he trailed off. “That I’d never again be able to _feel_. And then I met you two years ago and . . . it was like . . . the world that’d gone black and white when Gwen died, shifted into fucking Pantone colors, bright and brilliant and . . . I just thought that meant that I was done with the worst of the grief. That I’d met my first kindred spirit since I let Gwen die.”

 

“Pete—”

 

“And then, I started to have feelings for _you_. Like . . . sexual feelings. All I could think about was the way you moved, the way you sounded, the way you looked.” Peter sighed and looked down guiltily. “But I was fine as long as I could pass it off as some weird, bi-curiosity—a fluke that’d pass once I s-satisfied it. So, I tried, you know? Believe me, I tried.” He shook his head, laughing self-deprecatingly. “I went out with guys—kissed some of them . . . even let a couple of them go down on me. But it never. . . .” Peter shook his head again. “It only made what I felt for you keener. Made it grow _teeth_. And then New Year’s came along and . . . I thought I could put the whole matter to bed, so to speak. That I could kiss you and realize that you were just like the guys I used to get you out of my system. That it was just _hormones_ , y’know?”

 

Wade really _didn’t_ know, so he didn’t answer. Peter didn’t even notice.

 

“But then . . . it was _nothing_ like those other guys, Wade. _Nothing_. Kissing you was . . . _eleven_. Those other guys were, like, two.”

 

Wade smirked automatically, though inside he was numb with shock. “Points for the _Spinal Tap_ reference.”

 

“Thought you’d appreciate that,” Peter said wryly, shrugging. “Anyway, kissing you was . . . a revelation. It was like life had been knocked into alignment for the first time since Gwen died. Everything _made_ _sense_ , you know? I understood that what I’d been feeling for you wasn’t just sexual, and that’s why screwing around with other guys wouldn’t make it go away. That what I was feeling was . . . love. And that even if I had you the way I wanted you, that desire would _never_ be quenched once I had a taste.”

 

Wade leaned against the counter next to the fridge as strength just seemed to whoosh out of him. “Then why’d ya suck me off, Pete? If you knew that it wouldn’t fix anything?”

 

“Because I couldn’t _not_ , Wade.” A tear ran down Peter’s face, followed by several others. But Peter didn’t even seem to notice _them_ , either. “Because I wanted you so bad, I didn’t even care that I was getting myself in deep. That I was putting myself back in that place where . . . I was giving my heart and soul to someone else. Someone who could be taken from me at any moment. _I didn’t care_. I just _wanted_ you. _So bad_.”

 

Wade blinked. Continued to lean against the counter and took deep breaths. Then blinked again. He waited for that protective layer of numb to crack and crumble, so he’d know what to feel. What to _say_. For the moment, all he could do was stare at Peter . . . pretty Peter Parker. . . .

 

“I know I probably poisoned the water, being such a jerk and a scaredy-spider from months ago. I know you’d probably rather get done with a sandpaper dildo than have anything to do with me, romantically. But I just . . . I couldn’t keep this inside anymore, Wade. Couldn’t keep pretending that I don’t love you and need you when the exact opposite is true. When—” Peter paused and took a deep breath. “I know that either of us or both of us could wind up dead any number of ways at any minute. So I don’t _want_ another minute to go by without telling you the truth. Without coming clean. Without owning up to the fact that _I_ was the jerk. That I took what I wanted from you, then _ran_ _away_ like a frightened virgin after I got it. And had the nerve to give you the cold shoulder when you—pretty understandably—tried to talk about what happened.

 

“All I can say is . . . _I’m so sorry_ , Wade. I apologize for being immature and cowardly and selfish. I understand if you just wanna stay friends—or maybe not even _that_ —but I’m hoping you can maybe forgive me, and look past my behavior in January, and . . . take a chance on me.”

 

Wade grimaced. “Aaaaand points _taken_ for the ABBA reference.”

 

Peter snorted. “Don’t _even_ , Wade. I know you have the _Mama Mia!_ soundtrack in your CD collection.”

 

“Hearsay! I object!” Wade spluttered, and Peter laughed.

 

“Badgering the witness, your Honor!” he said gravely, then snorted again. “Jeez, we’d be shitty attorneys.”

 

“Ain’t it the truth, Ruth.” Wade crooked another smirk Peter’s way, looking the other man over frankly until that deep blush sprang up again. And _all_ over. “So . . . you want me to take a chance on you, huh?”

 

“More than anything, Wade.” Peter’s voice and eyes were painfully sincere and earnest. It killed Wade to look at him. But he looked, nonetheless. Let that sweet, pure light that always seemed to shine from Peter crack that protective wall of numbness that surrounded his heart.

 

“After you got my hopes up then broke my fucking _heart_ , you want me to be vulnerable like that _again_ — _trust_ that you know what you want, this time—and give you carte blanche with my fucking _life_?”

 

Peter took another step closer, meek and small. “Please,” he whispered. “How can I prove myself to you? I know I can’t earn your trust back all at once, but . . . can I make a start? Will you accept even a small act of atonement?”

 

“I dunno.” Still smirking, Wade stood up straight, arms akimbo. He knew he cut quite the imposing— _sexy_ , even with all the scars—figure. And even if he _hadn’t_ known, the way Peter’s eyes widened would’ve told him plainly. “Maybe I _could_ , depending on the act of atonement. . . .”

 

“Anything,” Peter said in that earnest, urgent voice.

 

“Then come here and get on your knees, Baby Boy.”

 

Swallowing, Peter nodded and did as he was bidden, all lithe grace and innocent uncertainty. When he was in Wade’s personal space—close enough that Wade could smell his own cinnamon-spicy body wash on Peter’s sweet skin—he dropped gracefully to his knees without breaking eye contact. Wade reached out and ran his hand through Peter’s thick, shaggy dark hair.

 

“I could, ya know,” Wade murmured almost wistfully, letting locks card through his fingers. His gaze never left Peter’s. “I could shove my cock down your throat—use that pretty mouth of yours _hard_ —like I wanted to do on New Year’s. Hold your head till your gag-reflex gives up and I come down your throat _ten_ times. I got, like, _no_ refractory time to speak of, FYI. And I’d make you love every moment of it. You _would_ , wouldn’t you? Love me treating you like a mindless, soulless come-dumpster?”

 

Peter whimpered, but still didn’t look away. And even from this angle, Wade could tell he wasn’t _just_ half-hard, anymore.

 

“You wanna be Dommed so bad, I can feel the need baking off you like _heat_ , Baby Boy. You wanna be told what to do, how to do it, and when to get off,” Wade said, his hand clenching tight in Peter’s hair, until tears sprang to Peter’s wide eyes. “I could hurt you in ways you never even _dreamed_ of and make you _crave_ it so bad, it’s like a drug in your veins. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Peter nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks. Wade smiled a little, even as the last shards of the wall of numbness crumbled to dust that blew away.

 

“And do you know why that is?” he asked in a voice that shook only a little. Peter nodded again, without hesitation, before answering.

 

“B-Because I love you,” was his stuttered reply.

 

“No,” Wade whispered, kneeling in front of Peter, but pushing his head back. Then he was mouthing at Peter’s throat, where the pulse ran fast and steady. His skin tasted like manna from Heaven. Wade could, for a moment, anyway, understand how some people went cannibal. But on the heels of that, Peter shivered and whimpered so helplessly, Wade thankfully lost the previous train of thought entirely, for just feeling the eager bob of Peter's Adam's apple and inhaling the crisp, spicy scent of his skin. “Because _I_ love _you_. Because _that’s_ what you’ll _always_ be addicted to, Pete. To being loved by someone. And you’ll do _anything_ to _keep_ that love, and let me do anything _to you_. Because I love you.”

 

Peter drew in a shaking breath that sounded like a sob as Wade said this, and slid his hand around Peter’s waist, to the small of his back. He pulled Peter against him, close and tight, his hand in Peter’s hair loosening, gentling, until it cradled the back of Peter’s head.

 

“Oh, Baby Boy,” Wade murmured as Peter started to shake in his arms. To quietly weep with something deeper than relief. Something that rendered his pliant, obedient body almost limp in Wade’s arms. “Baby Boy, you _know_ I forgive you. I _always_ will. If you’re addicted to being loved, then _I’m_ addicted to loving someone. To loving _you_. Couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.”

 

“I’m s-so sorry!”

 

“I know, kiddo. Apology accepted. It’s over. Water under the Brooklyn Bridge, right? Right?” Wade sat back and tipped Peter’s head back so he could look into those tear-shiny, reddened eyes.

 

Finally, Peter nodded. “Right,” he said in the smallest voice Wade had ever heard from him.

 

“Okay. Good.” Wade leaned in and kissed the tip of Peter’s nose. “Now, what say we get up off this cold, hard-ass, though recently Swiffer’d floor, and have some tacos, huh? I’ll bet after all this angstin’, you’re _starvin’_.”

 

“I, uh . . . I _am_ kinda hungry again,” Peter admitted, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. Then he was wrapping his arms around Wade’s neck as Wade stood them up. “You make, like, the best tacos _ever_ . . . and I don’t even _like_ Tex-Mex.”

 

“Keep sayin’ shit like that, Petey-pie, and I’ll have to spank ya.”

 

Peter’s eyes widened with undisguised interest and Wade chuckled. “Okay, that’s something to explore later on. _After_ we’ve had second dinner.”

 

“Second _elevensies_ ,” Peter corrected, and Wade rolled his eyes, even though, before he’d met Peter Parker, he’d have fucked the _breakfast_ out of Billy Boyd.

 

“Or that, nerd,” he allowed, pulling Peter against him for some grinding and swaying. Peter was, despite the weeping, still mostly hard. And so, for that matter, was Wade. Plus, there was all the gazing-into-each-other's-eyes that was apparently a thing, now. . . .

 

“Suddenly, I’m not the biggest fan of Tex-Mex, once again,” Peter whispered, and Wade grinned, his hands sliding down to cup Peter’s ass possessively, kneading firm, soft-skinned flesh almost against his own will.

 

“I know you’re into the Dom/sub thing and maybe a little sado-masochism. But if you keep bashing Tex-Mex, I’m gonna have to give you what-for, _for-realsies_.”

 

Peter smiled and bounced up on his toes, his eyes fluttering to half-mast. “And _how_ will you be . . . _giving it to me_ , good sir? A manly bout of fisticuffs? Pistols at dawn? Competitive log-rolling? Homosocial caber-tossing?”

 

“ _Caber-tossing_? You mean toothpick-flicking for bitches?” Wade’s eyebrow quirked and Peter snickered, ducking his head for a moment. Then he was gazing up into Wade’s eyes, his own sparkling, but not with tears.

 

“Second elevensies can wait till we’ve worked up an appetite, maybe?” he asked, his voice hopeful and nervous, his arms tightening around Wade’s neck. Wade shrugged nonchalantly, even though he was so on-board, his cock literally twitched and began drooling precome all over Peter’s abdomen.

 

“I won’t lie and say I don’t wanna get all up in that tight little ass,” Wade murmured, kissing Peter’s forehead and lingering for the scent of his own shampoo in Peter’s thick hair. Then Peter was gasping and giggling as Wade scooped him up and carried him out of the kitchen. “Your milkshake _totes_ brought _this_ ol’ boy to the yard . . . damn _right_. And by the way, where did you learn to _shake it_ like _that_?”

 

Peter blushed again, but seemed pleased. “Oh . . . here and there. One picks things up, y’know. Uh . . . since we’re being honest, um . . . the electricity in my building? It, um . . . it didn’t actually go blooey. I lied so . . . so I could stay here for a few days and maybe . . . _woo_ _you_ ,” he mumbled guiltily, but he was still giggling a little. Wade shrugged as he marched them into his bedroom, not bothering with the lights. He could see quite well just from the light from the nearby streetlamps.

 

So Wade laid Peter on the bed gently, then knelt between Peter’s instantly spread thighs, studying the beautiful man he’d loved for what felt like his entire life.

 

[How on _Earth_ did we get _here_?] White wondered, sounding utterly befuddled, for once. [Is this an actual miracle, or just bad writing?]

 

{Probably a little of both . . . though, honestly, fucked if _I_ know for sure, Eeyore,} was Yellow’s equally baffled reply. Wade ignored them both. Ignored everything that wasn't Peter's deep, dark, adoring gaze.

 

“Well, then,” Wade said running his finger up Peter’s cock, to the tip. Peter shivered, then moaned when Wade licked salty-sweet precome from his index finger and swooped in for a teasing, wet, _thorough_ kiss. “Consider me wooed.”

 

And the tacos were _not_ had until the sun was more than halfway up the sky, and first breakfast had come and gone.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Person A singing and dancing around without knowing person B is there watching. Person B reveals themselves by singing the next verse of the song._
> 
> Where _did_ Peter learn to shake it like that? Only Tumblr knows. . . .
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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